Broken Strings (The Start of It All)
by KaiInMotion
Summary: One night he brings Martin coffee while he's working late, and that's where it all begins... AU where Martin Li is exactly what he seems; a nice, handsome Chinese immigrant who runs a homeless shelter and is definitely NOT a maniac with a homicidal alternate identity. Peter is still Spidey, though. Cute shit ensues.


**Broken Strings / The Start of It All**

"Coffee?" Peter asked, sliding a cup of hot black tar across Martin Li's desk. Martin glanced up in surprise, apparently having missed Peter's entrance.

Of course, like most people in Peter Parker's life, Martin Li, the director of FEAST Shelter, didn't know just how quietly Peter could move—let alone that he was Spider-Man.

Recently Peter had taken to acting a lot clumsier than he actually was, on the advice of one Mary Jane Watson.

"People are going to start noticing regular old Peter Parker has the unnatural grace and balance of a ballerina on steroids if you don't start dropping things once in a while," she'd said a few weeks ago over coffee (much nicer, fancier coffee than he'd made for Martin, since Mary Jane was a bona fide writer now, and writers, of course, can find good coffee like hounds tracking the scent of blood) and flashed him her signature smile, the one that used to make his stomach do weird, weird things.

A smile that had kept doing weird things to his stomach for months after she dumped him, until, one day, it was Martin's smile that made his stomach dip like the floor of an office building had just been pulled out from under him wholesale, which unfortunately was a feeling Peter knew intimately.

"If you're going to start sleeping with men you better start dressing better, too," MJ had told him.

She had a way with words, that one. Again; writer.

"Thanks!" Martin said, reaching for the steaming mug. He kicked a stool in Peter's direction, and he grabbed it, planting himself down and scooting closer to Martin's desk. "I needed this. May gone home yet?"

"I think she's in her office playing solitaire with Gloria," Peter laughed.

"Thick as thieves, those two," Martin said knowingly.

Peter had saved Gloria from a harsh beating at the hands of some thugs one afternoon a few months ago, and, catching sight of her threadbare clothes and dark, hollow eyes, he'd offered up the name of FEAST, hoping she'd take him up on it. Peter had been volunteering at the shelter where his aunt May worked long enough to know the look of hungry, homeless souls. He hadn't been sure she'd do the smart thing and take him up on the offer, although the next time he came in, there she'd been, standing inside, out of the cold, looking around a little shell-shocked.

Peter had gone over to introduce himself—his true self, out from under the sleek new white mask he'd donned as Spider-Man—but of course Aunt May had gotten there first, resting a hand on her shoulder and guiding her away, a sight that had warmed his heart greatly.

He had thought the world felt empty, after Uncle Ben died, but no world with May Parker in it could ever be empty, or cold, or harsh, no matter how much evil lurked in its shadows. The force of her love knew no bounds, there was nobody her door was closed to. She'd helped Gloria fill out resumes and applications until she found a job at the StringBean Cafe down the road, and now Gloria had her own place and she worked here as an administrator in her spare time, helping folks who had once been in her position—including, miraculously, a few of the thugs who'd attempted to jump her that day Peter saved her as Spidey.

It was a strange, strange world, when friends like May and Gloria could find each other, and when people like Peter and MJ, with so much between them, pain and heartbreak, could find a way to be friends again, too.

Months ago Peter had finally broken through to MJ and managed to get them to start talking again, but it had been hard…

He'd spent a few nights on her couch, the two of them sitting up into the morning hours, laughing and crying together, fighting, getting into screaming matches only to start laughing halfway through, and then end up drinking some more. Peter began to cry when MJ's voice broke as she confessed she'd started going to support groups for a self-harm problem he never knew existed, that she'd apparently been dealing with since high school. And they both cried some more when they admitted both of them had been in love with Harry in high school, just as much as they'd been in love with each other, and how they'd resented each other for the bonds they both had with him, hiding their jealousy so, so well. They even Skyped him together, trying to rope him and his European roommates into a game of online Truth-or-Dare until he rolled his eyes at their drunkenness and hung up on them, even though Peter could see he was fighting back a smile.

Harry tried not to encourage them, but he was bad at it.

It was _such_ a strange world, Peter thought, that maybe he _could_ have his shot with Martin. Maybe Martin Li—tall, dark, handsome, and the most generous man Peter had ever encountered, save for maybe Uncle Ben—could look at nerdy, slim, twunk-ish (MJ's label, not his, just for the record) Peter, and want him back, even if he didn't know Peter was Spider-Man, even if he wasn't a hero.

Maybe _just _Peter could be enough.

It was probably a pipe dream, but he wasn't admitting defeat until he'd tried. You couldn't lose a fight if you never put up a fight in the first place, and you couldn't win one for that matter, either.

"I'm not surprised those two are up," Peter said, returning Martin's smile, "I'm more surprised _you're_ still here. What gives?"

"I'm actually just putting off going back to my apartment," Martin admitted, his smile turning more sheepish, a look that wasn't common on him—for all his kindness and generosity, Martin was still a confident, self-assured man. "I'm having a problem with the Smart System—the entire house is malfunctioning, and they won't be able to fix it until next Monday. The ice machine is spitting hail at me, I asked the AI assistant to call my doctor so I could schedule an appointment and she started playing old Jennifer Lopez songs instead…I can't get any rest around there with everything malfunctioning, so I figured I'd spend the night on my couch here, honestly."

"Okay, an AI playing Jenny From the Block for you doesn't sound like a problem to me, in fact it sounds like she's doing exactly what she's supposed to, but if you wanted me to come take a look at it…? I could probably fix some of it. Or at least power it all down until the repairmen come."

"Really?" Martin's dark eyes widened. "I know you work for Dr. Otto, but is the technology the same?"

"Close enough," Peter said, shrugging. "I actually help Aunt May with her Smart Fridge all the time when it acts up. Most of these devices are more trouble than they're worth, but I can turn your house into a house again, instead of a horrifying tech demo."

Martin clapped Peter on the shoulder. "Thank you so much! I'll grab my coat. And I promise I will pay you in copious amounts of whiskey."

"I'll go say goodnight to Gloria and Aunt May," Peter said, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck. He was going to get to spend half the night with Martin! Total score!

"Meet me out front in fifteen?" Martin asked, raising a single black brow.

Peter's stomach did flip-flops. Why did he have to be so freaking hot? It didn't help that his normal formal attire had come undone in several spots—his tie was loose, his jacket had been thrown aside, and his shirt was rolled up to his elbows. He looked damn good in a white button-up and suit vest. And to top it off Martin had run a hand through his cropped black hair, mussing up the short, spiky strands.

Peter wanted to wrap his hands in that hair and pull Martin in for a kiss, to press tiny kisses _all over _his stupid, beautiful face, one for every beauty mark, one for every moment.

_Idiot,_ he thought. _He's probably straight. You JUST found out you're bi and your first dude-crush is probably straight as they come._

"Hey Peter?" Martin called when he was halfway to the door.

Peter almost jumped out of his skin. He craned his neck to look back at the tall Chinese man behind the desk. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for everything," Martin said, "including the coffee."

Peter held up his own steaming mug in cheers as he stepped out of the brightly lit office and closed the door behind him, his footsteps muffled on the beige carpeting that ran throughout FEAST's office areas.

He drank his scalding coffee in two big gulps as he walked around the corner and down the hall, glancing through the windows into the main room downstairs, which was mostly dark now, after curfew; a few nightlights cast a weak orange glow in some of the far corners, so nobody tripped or fell in the dark, and the residents in wheelchairs could navigate the room with ease if they had to get up for some reason in the night. A few folks were up in their beds, chatting with those around them quietly or reading on phones and laptops, but most were asleep, ready for another day of work here at FEAST tomorrow, or to head out as soon as morning came in search of a job.

He felt such a desperate pang of pure, unfiltered _love_, not just affection, but love, for Martin at the sight of it all.

He'd come to this country with nothing, grieving his parents and looking for a fresh start, and now he'd built a home for people who had nothing, a place where they belonged, a place to help those nobody else would. How many times had Peter found him holding someone's hair or rubbing their back as they puked during detox? Or caught him slipping them fives and tens for, well, whatever they needed; new socks, a pair of headphones, a new book to read. Martin treated all these people like they were his family, his chosen children, and he never asked for anything back, because the only reward he needed was their happiness, the knowledge that they were safe.

"I can't sleep when I know they're out there on the streets," Martin had said once, as he shrugged on a coat to head out looking for a few normal residents who had gotten caught up in the drug game. "I'll just see their faces all night. I've got a responsibility here."

But the truth was, most of the folks who came in here for the first time didn't think he had _any_ responsibility to them—they didn't trust anybody, they didn't expect kindness or for anyone to care.

Nobody put that responsibility on Martin. He took it all on himself, because it was who he was.

It almost brought tears to Peter's eyes.

"Hey," he said, knocking on May's door. She and Gloria sat across from each other at her large desk, where everything had been pushed aside to make room for their cards, their glasses of iced-tea, and a pack of the disgusting-smelling clove cigarettes Gloria smoked and was always trying to convince Peter and May to try.

"They're tobacco-free and nicotine-free!" she'd cry, holding up the flashy orange pack. "They're made of herbs and marshmallow leaves! The smoke tastes like mint!"

"It's still smoke, dear," May would say lovingly, amused. "It's all awful for your lungs."

"Not _as_ awful," Gloria would reason, lighting another with a shrug. "Besides, I go crazy if I'm not puffing out smoke. No idea why."

"I'll allow it in my office because it _does _smell like mint," May always relented, but in reality she just couldn't say no to Gloria, who reminded her of herself at that age.

"Peter!" Gloria cried at the sight of him. "Care to join us? The game is just getting good!"

"By which she means she's ahead—for now," Aunt May informed him, rising and coming around her desk to give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. Her clothes smelled like lavender laundry detergent. "Are you drinking coffee at one in the morning, Peter?"

He laughed. "Guilty as charged Aunt May. I actually just popped in to say goodnight. I'm going to head home with Martin and see if I can fix some of the stuff in his apartment that's been acting up."

"Martin?" May asked. "Oh, time is passing so fast. You're too old to call him Mr. Li now, aren't you?"

Peter laughed to hide his embarrassment. He'd just gotten the same feeling of alarm he did when he was in-costume and some goon or minion spotted him and alerted their backup, just before he got swarmed and had to break a couple noses. Obviously that wouldn't fly in this situation—you couldn't break Aunt May's nose. Or, you could, but then you'd better run, because Aunt May would probably skin you alive and make your skin and bones into some kind of grotesque furniture, after she was done crying from the betrayal.

"Now that we know each other better it feels weird to call him something so formal," Peter said. "Besides, he's not that much older than me."

Which wasn't totally true. Peter had just turned twenty-four and Martin was thirty, but did it really matter?

"Well, it's nice of you to help him no matter what we're calling him," May said, patting his cheek. "And it's exactly like you. Uncle Ben would be so proud."

Peter recoiled in surprise—he always felt surprised when he heard Uncle Ben's name, even though he was always thinking of him already, but it was just so strange and shocking for someone else, even his own wife, to invoke his presence.

It always made Peter's eyes sting and his throat go tight, so all he could do was nod.

May seemed to understand, her own eyes glossing over as well, before she turned and returned to Gloria with a smile, settling back into her chair. "Well, if Peter isn't joining us we're going to have to continue this round, which means I'll be able to get my revenge."

"Is that so?!" Gloria laughed. She tossed another beaming smile over her shoulder, her olive-green eyes glowing from beneath tangles of black hair. "Night, Pete!"

"Night G," he called, grabbing his coat from the rack near the door and stepping back into the hall.

He went all the way down to the laundry room in the basement, where he left a pile of all the coins he had in a tin on one of the counters, so anybody who had to clean some stuff tomorrow would be able to. The coin-operated machines had been an impulse purchase Martin made when a local laundromat went out of business and needed to offload their appliances fast. He regretted them and was always insisting he'd replace them with free machines, but it was another one of those things he was too busy to handle. He was stretched in too many directions. Peter made a mental note to find some cheap washers and driers for him as a little surprise before he turned off the light and jogged upstairs.

He was prepared to wait for Martin once he got outside, but he was already out there, leaning against the building off to the side so Peter almost didn't see him at first.

"It's snowing," he said out loud, just as Peter thought the same thing, causing him to jump four feet in the air. He almost shot a web and slung onto the side of the building, out of the reach of danger, on impulse, and had to stop himself just as he recognized Martin's voice.

"CHRIST ON A CRACKER!"

Martin cackled.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized, kicking off the wall and coming over. "I just thought it was nice." He held out a hand and caught a few snowflakes which immediately melted on his black leather glove.

"It _is_ nice," Peter agreed, his shoulders dropping.

"First snow of the winter."

"In early December," Peter noted, miffed. "It's global warming, you know. We used to get our first snow in October when I was a kid. And the snowdrifts were up to Uncle Ben's chest. Now even in the middle of January the worst snowfalls still only come up to your knees if you're lucky."

"Yeah, yeah, the Earth is dying," Martin said with a laugh. "I just figure some brilliant inventor like your friend Dr. Otto is going to find a way to fix it all."

"It's not funny!" Peter cried, pointing an accusing finger at him. "The polar bears are dying!"

"I know," Martin said, "Spider-Man tweeted about it the other day."

Peter coughed. "Ah, yeah. I saw that. So…you follow Spider-Man?"

"Of course!" Martin said, grinning as he jerked his head in the direction of the street and started down the steps. Peter fell in line behind him. "Have you seen that new suit? I can't get enough of it."

"You don't miss the classic one?" Peter enquired, curious. He might as well pick Martin's brain while he could.

Most of his fans loved his new monochrome suit. It was sleek and white, with black patches running up and down the sides, split here and there by thin white lines, and had a black spider emblazoned on the chest. The eyes were his favourite part; they were larger than his old lenses, and bright gleaming silver instead of plain old white. They were made of shock-resistant material and could dim on a dime to protect his eyes from the harsh glare of flash-bombs. It was as sleek and form-fitting as his other suits, but Peter had never felt as dangerous or as powerful in any of those. It felt almost like he'd graduated and stepped up to the next level of heroism, if that was even possible. It had never felt so, well, _stylish_ to be Spider-Man.

A small minority, though, did not appreciate the new look.

A few had even outright stated it wasn't the same Spider-Man, but an impostor, and that the real Spidey was dead. It was a regular old Internet conspiracy theory now. He was up there with Avril Lavigne and Taylor Swift in the 'Is Actually A Clone' club.

"Of course," Martin said, "but I'm sure he'll dig it out again once in a while, for special occasions or nostalgia purposes. He has to know it's half of his brand, right? People have all these posters and toys and stuffed animals—"

"Plushies."

"Huh?" Martin actually stopped walking.

"Oh, I, uh—I just…they're called plushies, now, not stuffed animals," he stammered.

For a moment, Martin was silent. Then, he laughed—a deep, fat belly laugh that made Peter smile reflexively. "Do you—do you have an apartment full of Spider-Man plushies, Peter Parker? Are you one of those fans?"

"No!" Peter cried. "I can't afford that crap! They want blood money for that merch!"

One downside of your secret-identity being a secret-identity is that you can't collect merchandising royalties on all the stuff people put your face, or, er, mask, on. Peter could have raked in millions if he came out as Spider-Man, but he hadn't even come out as bi. Hell, he hadn't even come out as vegetarian yet, and Aunt May kept talking about making her famous meatloaf recipe. That was going to be an awkward conversation. He could have paid off his student loans, and MJ's, and May's mortgage, and still have enough leftover for a better apartment and one of those fancy heated blankets that would probably burn down said better apartment.

To be fair, it might bring more trouble than it was worth if people knew who he was. A _lot_ of people wanted to sue Spider-Man for using their car doors as projectile weapons or breaking their windshields when he landed on, or was inevitably thrown onto, the roofs of their cars.

Martin shook his head as they fell into step beside each other again. The sounds of distant traffic serenaded them. Peter always loved this city at night, but he loved it more with Martin at his side.

"Anyway," Martin said with a playful smile, "the new suit is way sexier."

"O—oh?" Peter said, blushing. "I didn't know he was your type."

"You mean male?"

"Ha, yeah, I guess that's what I meant," Peter said. "So you, uh, go both ways? I mean, you were married to a woman once, right?"

"Yes," Martin said, smiling. "But she was a nightmare. She's a lot nicer to me now that we're not married. I won't lie, I prefer men, but women are nice too. I just wasn't with the right one."

"Is Spider-Man the right one?"

Martin laughed. "I don't know. Have you seen those thighs of his? That's one spiderweb I'd happily crawl into."

Peter was so shocked he choked on his laughter.

"What about you?" Martin asked. "Would you go for a fling with the thing that shoots webs?"

"Am I talking to Dr. Seuss right now?"

"Don't change the subject," Martin instructed.

Peter bit his lip, deliberating. If he wasn't Spider-Man, he would probably date Spider-Man. Who didn't want to date a superhero?

"I…I like somebody else," he said, pointedly not looking at Martin.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Peter repeated, a little more confidently. "Yeah, I definitely have my eye on someone, actually."

"Who's the lucky lady?"

Peter stopped walking again, and Martin paused too. They stood on an empty corner at an intersection. A lone car idled by, disco music blaring from inside, copious amounts of pungent smoke flooding out the cracked windows as the driver smoked what was clearly _not_ a cigarette. The flashing street signs overhead cascaded neon red and green down over the two men.

"Actually," Peter said, a strange sense of calm and _rightness_ washing over him, "it's a guy."

"Really?" Martin asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Uh-huh. He's…well, he's this amazing, amazing man. He runs this place called the FEAST Shelter, and he's always helping anybody he can, no matter what it costs him. He's nice to my aunt, and he always saves me one of his coconut cakes in the morning, even though they're his favourite and he _never_ shares with anybody else, and whenever I see him I feel like my heart is going to explode out of my fucking chest—"

"PETER PARKER," Martin snapped, stepping closer. "That's the first time I've ever heard you use such filthy language."

And then he kissed Peter, and the entire world exploded.

It was not one movement—it was dozens of them, an entire avalanche of them. Martin's large hands grasped Peter's jaw none too gently, and somehow Peter got his hands beneath the folds of Martin's fancy black peacoat, clutching his hips just as hard and loosing a guttural moan into his mouth, which Martin happily swallowed down. He was smiling against Peter's lips, and Peter felt wetness on his face and realized he was crying while he gnashed his face against Martin's like a hungry fucking animal, biting his lower lip with all the grace of…well, with all the grace of his own fourteen year-old self trying to kiss MJ for the first time, too overwhelmed by the sensations inside of him to pay attention to what he was doing.

MJ had laughed and told him to slow down, but Martin didn't want him to slow down—Martin was grabbing up fistfuls of Peter's coat now, holding him in place so he had to keep kissing him, and Peter had no complaints, because somehow he was laughing as he cried, and then he was letting himself have just what he'd wanted, exactly what he'd fantasized about—he turned his face, kissing up Martin's jaw, his cheek, his temple, his eyelids, even. Kissing anywhere he could, including the perfect little mole above Martin's lip, slightly to the left.

When he pulled back Martin's eyes, such a dark brown they were almost as black as his hair, were glowing like they had stars in them.

"Peter, I—"

"I've been in love with you for months," Peter said, cutting his boss off. He knew if he didn't say it now, he'd never work up the courage to say it again. "I know that's insane, and I know I'm a mess, but I'm in love with you, and I don't want this to be just a kiss. I want it to be _the _kiss that starts it all."

"Define _'it all'_," Martin said, inclining his head to rest his forehead against Peter's.

"_This,"_ Peter said, "this is it all," and kissed him again.

And that was the start of it all.

_the end._

Hi! Thanks for reading this weird little fic idea I had to get out of my brain. I can't help how much I ship these two and there was basically no other fic about them!

As always if you liked this story and want to support me I hope you'll consider checking out my original novels published as Apollo Blake and Cosmo Knox, available on Amazon!


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